


Entrée

by sammyatstanford



Series: Devotion [1]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Ballet Dancer Jared, Eventual Sadist Jensen, Hurt Jared, Teacher Jensen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 23:36:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9042749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammyatstanford/pseuds/sammyatstanford
Summary: Entrée: the first part of a grand pas de deux (dance for two), in which the dancers first appear on the stage and, typically with great pageantry, acknowledge each other, positioning themselves near each other in preparation for the subsequent adagio.Or: Jared, teenage runaway and ballet prodigy, shows up one rainy winter morning at the home of Jensen Ackles, ballet instructor, and begs Jensen to take him on as a student.





	

Jared shivers, uncontrollable and all the way down deep into his bones. He’s long since abandoned his numb-fingered grip on his bag, dropped it to the damp wooden planks of the porch, hands shoved into his wet pockets and squeezed into hot-red fists that stretch and ache, like the knuckles want to pop right out of his skin.

 _Fuck_ , it’s cold. Four hours since the bus dropped him off, before dawn even started to bleed light into the horizon, and ten miles plodded, give or take. No food in his stomach, but that’s mostly been the case for days. It had started to rain partway through his journey in the late November cold—tiny, freezing drops that stung at his exposed skin in the wind, and then fat, frosted ones that snuck into the collar of his hoodie, soaked him inside and out. The hem of his jeans is dark with mud.

His body gives another violent shudder, and he wills himself to be smaller, tighter, warmer. Wonders if he sinks down into a ball on the porch, will that make him look sympathetic?

For a while, he wasn’t even sure if he was going the right direction, made the journey here almost entirely on word of mouth. The misery, the hunger, made him a little delirious, and he’d almost thought he was hallucinating the big house as he walked down the gravel road. But it was just like Rafeo had told him, after Jared had reluctantly pried the words out of the guy in ways he’s not...well, he’s not proud of how he’d gotten them, but he’s not ashamed either. A man does what a man has to do.

The house looked small against the landscape, but it’s big up close. Pine green paint with stained wood trim and shutters, a wide front porch, austere but sad with age, like it has tired of its own weight, and the spread of a pond just visible behind the house. Exactly as Rafeo had described it.

Jared blesses the covered porch now, for keeping him out of the direct rain, although the chilly haze of it envelopes him no matter where he stands.

It had never even occurred to him that Jensen Ackles might not be home.

There’s a porch swing hanging, black paint and no cushions, slicked with the residue of rainy air. It seems presumptuous to sit, rude somehow, some echo of a lesson Jared’s mama taught him somewhere in distant memory, a vague impression that makes him reluctant to act so familiar. But he’s starting to feel so tired, exhaustion and lack of food and all that cold soaking so deep down into him—the bench is starting to look very appealing. He could just rest, just until Jensen Ackles comes back.

Assuming Jensen Ackles does come back. Fuck, Jared hopes he didn’t leave for a long Thanksgiving vacation or something.

Jared doesn’t know how long he waits there, digital wristwatch long since swapped away for a meal’s worth of food, eyelids heavy, body spasming with the chill until even that starts to taper away. The gunmetal gray of the sky hides the movement of the sun and if Jared _could_ give up, he just might. If he weren’t all the way out here, miles from any help, already stranded, already desperate. But he is, all of those things, so he stays for an unknown amount of time, until an old model Ford pickup comes bumping up the drive, sounds of its approach lost in the fall of rain onto field grasses, trees, the distant pond, and he feels a swooping lightness in his stomach.

The car is rustbucket red and aged off-white. The man behind the wheel—Ackles?—pulls it to a stop where the drive runs up beside the house. There’s a long moment of silence, where Jared can see through clear window glass that the driver is looking in his direction, gaze obscured under the black brim of his baseball cap. Jared holds his breath without realizing it.

The man gets out of the car, gives Jared another long stare. He’s in blue flannel and dark denim, a thick down vest over his shoulders, white undershirt peeking out at his collar where the skin of his throat shows. His snapback reads Dakine in off-center gray letters. Finally, he seems to decide something, turns to pull a canvas bag out from under the blue tarp in the truck bed, and walks his way over to the porch.

Well, limps his way, actually. It doesn’t look serious, just a small hitch of his gait, but the sight of it takes Jared off guard.

Adrenaline seeps in under the cold and fatigue bearing Jared down as the man approaches, steps up the three little stairs onto the porch. He gives Jared one more cold, assessing gaze. Even under the hat, Jared can see that he’s beautiful, classical like a Greek statue, strong jawline and symmetrical nose and a plush mouth. Principal danseur material, for sure.

Jared feels his heart thudding, his palms tingling pins and needles of awareness. This is the moment of judgment, and Jared—drenched, starved, desperate—waits.

“ _Don’t talk to him,”_ Rafeo had cautioned, petting at Jared’s hair. _“If he wants to talk to you, he’ll invite you in.”_

_Jared pulls back, licks pressure-numbed lips, takes a deep breath. “What if he doesn’t?”_

_Rafeo frowns. “Then you’re done. You leave. He’s not someone you question.”_

With a dismissive turn of his head, the man moves toward the door.

“W-wait!” Jared stammers out, and miraculously, the man does. “A-are you Je-Jensen A-A-Ackles?” The shivers are back now, tenfold worse for their absence. Jared feels like he’s going to shake apart.

“Who’s asking?” the man replies, voice gruff, unkind. He turns back halfway, so Jared is in his periphery, and Jared makes an effort to look healthier, happier, _better_.

“M-my name is J-Jared,” he says, tries to will down the cold with a conscious effort. “I want t-t-to learn from you.”

“Well, Jared,” the man says, and his voice makes Jared’s name something simultaneously menacing and unimportant, “I’m afraid I’m not taking on any students right now.” He turns back to the door and Jared feels his heart drop downdowndown somewhere dark inside him because this is his last hope. He’s given _everything_ to get here. He has nothing left.

“P-please, Mr. Ackles!” he says, forcing the man to stop again. “I don’t—I don’t have anywhere else to go.” It comes out broken, too honest. Pathetic. No one would want him like this. No one. Especially not Jensen Ackles.

There have been many moments in Jared’s life when he’s hated himself before, but this...this is the darkest.

Mr. Ackles has already turned away again, taken the remaining steps to the front door. He unlocks it with a jingle of keys, pushes it open. He’s leaving. Leaving Jared out here, alone.

Jared deflates, wilts, a flower in frost. He can only be so resilient. He has saved all of himself for this, and now he has to go back, through the cold and the wet, he doesn’t even know where. Make a new plan, find a new path.

Maybe Mr. Ackles will let him stay on the porch until the rain subsides.

Maybe Jared will just curl up on the side of the road and die.

“Well, are you coming in or not?” that gruff voice asks him, and Jared’s chin jerks up from its journey down to his chest.

“W-what?”

“Get inside,” Mr. Ackles reiterates. “You look like a fucking drowned puppy, Jesus.” He stomps his work boots on the mat in front of the door, limps over the threshold.

Jared hops to, grabs his wet duffel from the floorboards, quicksteps it inside.

“Take off your shoes,” Mr. Ackles says pointedly, shutting and locking the door behind them. He stares critically at Jared’s feet. “Your pants, too. Don’t track mud through my house.”

Jared jumps back onto the safety of the indoor mat and complies hastily, plucking at wet shoelace knots with numb fingers until they finally loosen and unravel. He fumbles button and zipper and shucks his jeans as well, unshy of his body, of dressing down in front of a stranger. He’s here to be trained, after all, knows that if he manages to convince the man to take him in, his legs will be the focus of Mr. Ackles’ attentions soon enough.

By the time he’s finished, Mr. Ackles has moved somewhere deeper into the house. Jared folds his jeans and carefully leaves them on the mat where they won’t make a mess. He leaves his duffel there too, since it’s also soaking wet.

The foyer is wide, cream-colored walls and warm wood trim, staircase to the left disappearing into the darkness of a second story. There’s a hallway that leads to the back of the house, and a pass-through to a sitting room, two polite loveseats and a high-backed chair with wooden arms. Mr. Ackles isn’t there, so Jared heads down the hallway, which opens into a much more reasonable living room, big sectional sofa, a flatscreen TV that looks incongruous against the old style wallpaper, a large bay window framed with stained glass. There’s a closed door on the wall to his left, and to his right, two stairs lead up to an eat-in kitchen. Mr. Ackles is behind the counter, emptying dry goods out of the bag he’d brought in from the car, turning to store them in cabinets.

“When’s the last time you ate, Jared?” he calls out.

Jared moves hesitantly up the stairs. “Um,” he answers, thinking. “Yesterday, sometime.”

Mr. Ackles nods like it’s not unexpected. “Sit,” he orders, gestures with a shoulder to the butcher block table at the far end of the kitchen, in front of another set of bay windows with that same stained glass border.

“My—my coat’s wet,” Jared says, even as he moves towards the table.

“Hang it on a chair.”

Jared complies, sheds his coat as he moves past the long kitchen island. His hoodie’s damp too, but other than the hood, it’s not so bad it’ll damage the furniture so he leaves it on. He’s so cold that it feels almost hot in the house, sweat breaking out at his collar, behind his ears, but he’s only got an undershirt on underneath, and it’s bad enough sitting at someone’s kitchen table in his underwear. He thinks about asking if he can change, but Mr. Ackles’s back is to him, hands busy pulling things out of cabinets, and Jared feels like he’s been roundly dismissed. So he perches on the edge of one of the wooden chairs, plays with the wet edges of the holes in his sweatshirt cuffs.

He tries to keep his eyes politely on his own hands, but eventually his curiosity wins out, and he finds his gaze drawn over to Mr. Ackles. The man has shed his vest and flannel, discarded on the far end of the counter, and he’s in a thin waffled shirt the color of eggshells. Jared watches the flex of his back muscles through the fabric as he reaches into an overhead cabinet, the deftness of his wrists as he stirs whatever’s in the pot on the stove. He moves with a musicality, a fluidity that speaks to years of dance training, the occasional hitch where he seems to catch his bad leg wrong, and Jared finds it mesmerizing. Mr. Ackles looks strong, capable despite the limp. Like someone you could trust, someone you could rely on.

Eventually, Mr. Ackles glances over at him, catches him looking, and Jared quickly drops his gaze to his hands, cheeks flushing hot. He hopes they’re still chapped enough from the cold to hide it.

Moments later, a bowl of oatmeal slides into place under his nose. It’s steaming hot, has a glob of what looks like peanut butter on it and apple slices scattered over the top.

“Eat,” Mr. Ackles says, setting down a glass of water next to the bowl. He settles into the seat catty-corner from Jared.

Jared picks up the spoon. He doesn’t really like oatmeal, but with the way his stomach clenches painfully as the smell hits his nose, he doesn’t have much room to be picky.

Mr. Ackles watches Jared take his first bite, chew the porridgey mess, swallow. It’s fine, for oatmeal, cinnamon scented and whatever’s on it isn’t peanut butter, but it’s salty and satisfying in the same way. When Jared makes no reaction, Mr. Ackles begins. “How old are you, Jared?”

“Sixteen, Mr. Ackles,” Jared answers quickly.

“Sixteen,” the man repeats, his face steadfastly expressionless. The harsh gray light streaming in the window makes him look distant, austere like the house. “And what is a child like you doing here?”

Jared bristles a little at the words, knuckles squeezing tight around the handle of his spoon. Ackles doesn’t know shit about him, and if he did, he wouldn’t be so callous. But Jared’s trying to make a good impression here, so he swallows down his protest. “I want to learn from you. To be trained, in ballet.”

Mr. Ackles looks at him flatly, the perfect symmetry of his face all critical assessment and no kindness. Jared shoves more oatmeal into his mouth. “No, Jared. You can be ‘trained in ballet’ at a hundred other places. Why are you _here_?”

Jared’s nervousness beads away like oil on water. “Because I want to be the best,” he says, raising his chin. “And your dancers are the best.”

“It takes a lot more than desire,” Mr. Ackles responds. “Not everyone can achieve greatness.”

“I can,” Jared answers, interrupting Mr. Ackles with his mouth open like he wanted to say more. “I have the talent. I learned from Madame Baillieu. My training hasn’t been...consistent, but she said I’m the most natural student she’s ever seen.”

“Hmm,” Mr. Ackles says dismissively, but Jared can see that he’s processing the information, that he understands the weight of it. “Assuming I believe you—”

“You can ask her,” Jared interjects.

Mr. Ackles slams his palm on the table, and Jared jumps in his seat. “I am not amused by being interrupted,” he says plainly, and the dark look on his face is the most expression Jared’s seen there so far.

Jared swallows around the sudden lump in his throat, takes a sip of his water. “Sorry,” he says meekly, and takes another bite of his oatmeal.

“Assuming I believe you,” Mr. Ackles continues as though Jared never spoke, “natural talent can only take you so far. Greatness in this art requires dedication, the likes of which a child like you has likely never experienced. It requires discipline, determination, physical and emotional pain, exhaustion. You must be so entirely devoted to your training, to your art, that you are nothing without it. These are not classes you walk home from once the clock turns and forget about until tomorrow. You cannot run away to your other life.” There is fire in the green of his eyes as he speaks, in the low timbre of his voice, and the passion of it crawls up Jared’s spine, feels exactly like the clarity that overtakes him when he’s at the barre. “I take on one student at a time, and for that student, training _is_ his life. I provide for your needs, and your only focus, your only need, is to perfect your art. Are you prepared to make that commitment, Jared? Can you even understand it?”

“Yes,” Jared says, spine straight like he’s suspended, breathless somehow. “I do understand, and I’m ready. It’s what I want. It’s all I want. Ballet is the only thing I care about, the only thing I have. It’s the only thing I _want_ to have.”

Mr. Ackles studies him for a long, silent moment. Jared’s shoulders are heaving with the emotion that the man’s speech stirred in him; he feels the color high on his face. But he doesn’t let his gaze drop, doesn’t let the fire of Mr. Ackles’s eyes and the flatness of his face intimidate him. Jared’s known from the first moment he heard about Jensen Ackles that this is where he belongs. He’s given up so much of himself to get here, because his conviction is unshakeable. He is meant to be the greatest danseur of his age, and this doubting man is meant to make him that way.

Finally, the moment passes, some indefinable release of tension in the air between them that puts Jared on more even footing. Whatever test is going on, he thinks he’s passed the first part. He returns to his oatmeal.

“I don’t usually take students so young,” Mr. Ackles says after several minutes of quiet.

“Why?” Jared asks when he doesn’t continue.

“Because I am wholly uninterested in the interventions of nagging parents.”

Jared looks up, then quickly back down at the mush starting to grow cold now in his bowl. “I don’t—you won’t need to worry about that.”

“No?”

“No,” Jared says firmly, end of discussion.

“Explain,” Mr. Ackles commands. Jared just sits there, chewing a copper-tinged hole in his cheek. Mr. Ackles steeples his fingers, leans on his elbows on the table. “This isn’t a game, Jared. This isn’t some give and take where you decide what information you get to hide. I am in charge. _If_ I accept you under my tutelage, you must accept that. But I will not accept you for anything unless I am assured that I will not be slapped with kidnapping charges a few months down the road. So you may explain yourself, or you may leave.”

Jared sighs. The intensity of Mr. Ackles’s scrutiny is uncomfortable, leaves him feeling off balance all over again. “It’s just me and my dad,” he says dully. “And well, since he kicked me out a few months ago, I don’t think he’s too worried about me.”

“And what led you to deserve that?” Mr. Ackles presses.

“He found out about the dancing. I’d done it when I was younger, but he made me quit. Only I didn’t want to. I loved it, and since my mom died, it was the only thing that made me happy. So I came up with all sorts of excuses, ways to explain where I was, why I was out. Practiced in my room, went to classes when I was supposed to be at basketball practice. Not like he’d ever go to one of my games anyway, so it’s not like he’d ever find out I wasn’t on the team.” He lets out a huff of air. “But he uh, he did. Find out. Said I could give it up or get out. Said no son of his would be some fairy faggot.”

“That word,” Mr. Ackles interjects coldly, “will not be used under this roof.” It’s the same harsh tone he used when he’d told Jared not to interrupt him, and it’s a sharp contrast to the control of his voice otherwise.

“Sorry, Mr. Ackles,” Jared says. “I’m not—I don’t think that or anything. ‘s just what he said. Anyway, I refused to stop dancing, so he kicked me out. I tried living on friends’ couches for a while, but we weren’t exactly a well-to-do family and neither were my friends’. They didn’t really have enough to keep an extra kid around. Plus my dad, he wasn’t exactly a nice guy, you know? So people didn’t want to cross him, I guess. Anyway, Madame Baillieu told me I should try to go to New York, get into a residential program, get a scholarship. So I made my way there, and that’s when I found out about you.”

“From whom?”

“Rafeo Arriola.”

Mr. Ackles is quiet again for a long moment after that. Finally, Jared says with as much conviction as he can muster, “Mr. Ackles, my dad’s not going to come looking for me. No one is.” Mr. Ackles still gives no reaction, no sign of what he’s thinking, just another long, assessing look. Jared can only sit and wait and hope.

Finally, Mr. Ackles speaks again. “Firstly, you may call me Jensen.” Jared’s heart lifts a bit; if Mr. Ackles—Jensen—is allowing that kind of familiarity, then he must be interested in Jared, at least a bit. “Secondly, if I choose to take you on, you will agree to abide by my rules. Rule one, I am in charge. You do what I say. You do not question me. You eat what I tell you to eat, you sleep when I tell you to sleep, you dance when I tell you to dance. I am not interested in insubordination. I am willing and capable of turning you out on the street. Is that clear?” Jared swallows thickly, nods. It seems a little extreme, but then again extreme is what Jared is looking for. Jensen has done this before, knows better than Jared, who has snuck in ballet here and there for years but was never able to train as a serious student.

“Rule two, I am taking you in, and I am taking on the responsibility of not only your training, but your care. I expect you to recognize this, and be grateful.” Jared nods again, more quickly this time. That rule, at least, seems completely reasonable.

“Rule three, you may choose to leave at any time. You are here at your own discretion. But if you leave, you may never come back.”

“O-okay,” Jared says. He supposes that’s reasonable, too. Jensen wouldn’t want to waste his time on someone fickle.

“Rule four, when I say you’re finished, then your training with me is complete. You will leave at that time, and I will not allow you to stay for any reason. Rule five, my training methods remain my own. You will sign an agreement not to disclose that information to any person, now or at any time in the future.”

“All right,” Jared agrees. It’s more than he expected, but not more than he thinks is appropriate given the situation.

“That is all you need to know for now,” Jensen finishes. “Do you have any questions for me?”

“Why do you limp?” Jared asks, then has to fight the urge to slap his hand over his mouth. Where did that even come from? What the hell is the matter with him?

Jensen seems to be thinking the same thing. “Do you have any questions that are actually pertinent?” he asks quietly, and Jared, embarrassed, shakes his head. “Good. Rule six, don’t Google me.” Jared holds back his frown. He’d wanted to do that since he first heard about Jensen, but it’s not like his vagrant lifestyle came with a data plan. “Do you accept these rules, Jared?”

Jared thinks for a moment. “Yes, Jensen,” he agrees, testing out the name.

“Good.” Jensen pushes his chair away from the table. “Finish eating and then you will dance for me. After I observe, I will make a decision about whether you may stay on.” He stands up.

“Oh, it’s all right,” Jared says, moving to get to his feet. “I’m not really hungry anymore.” It’s true. His stomach’s so used to the erratic eating of the last few months that it doesn’t want to hold much food anymore.

“Rule one, Jared. I said that you will eat, and so you will eat until your meal is finished.” Jensen regards him carefully, rests his hands on the back of the chair he just vacated. “You are far too thin and weak to train adequately; I can tell just by looking at you. And you will only remedy that through proper nutrition and exercise.”

“It’s gone cold,” Jared protests. The oatmeal is thick and congealed now, even more unappetizing than it was before.

Jensen’s hands go tight on the back of the chair. “Then you should have eaten more quickly. Now, I assume you have your things in your bag?” he inquires, dropping the subject of the food as though the issue is dead. And, Jared supposes, it is. Rule one.

“Yes, Jensen,” he says, nodding and settling back into his chair.

“Good. When you are finished, you may change in the bathroom under the stairs. Then you will meet me in the studio, which is through that door.” He indicates the closed door on the far side of the living room. Jared nods again. He’s starting to feel like a marionette. “Try not to keep me waiting,” Jensen says as he starts to move away from the table. “And remember, Jared, _gratitude_.”

Then Jensen is gone, and it’s just Jared and his bowl of oatmeal. The bowl of oatmeal that Jensen provided him without asking anything in return.

Jared sighs and picks up his spoon.

***

The studio is beautiful. It’s not as large as the rest of the house, but it almost seems it—two stories tall, mirrored on two sides, and the far wall is inset with windows near the ceiling, filling it with natural light. The floor is hardwood, presumably sprung, stained a honey brown richer than anything else in the house, that matches the barre running along one of the mirrors. There’s an upright piano in one corner, a few portable ballet barres in another. It feels light, airy, magical. It feels like somewhere Jared could belong.

It’s chilly in here, and Jared wishes for a second that he had doubled up on his socks, but it’s too late now.

Jensen is waiting for him, sitting at the piano bench and drumming his fingers on the fall. “About time,” he says, rising to his feet as Jared takes in the room, lets the door to the house fall shut behind him.

“Sorry,” Jared says sheepishly. He really had hurried as much as he could. The oatmeal is sitting like a lump in his stomach from where he’d choked it down, and he hadn’t even stopped to consider what to wear, just pulled on the first pair of leggings and socks and whatever headband he could find, swapped out his hoodie for a dry one, grabbed his ballet shoes.

“Well, to the barre,” Jensen says with a sigh, flicking his hand towards the mirror across the room. Jared scurries over, hopping as he pulls on his shoes. He takes a second to adjust the straps the way he likes them, then stands straight, lets his shoulders settle into their proper carriage. He imagines the weight of Madame Baillieu’s careful hands adjusting him just so.

Curling his hand around the worn, polished wood of the barre feels like coming home. He drops his arms and feet into preparatory position, breathes deep.

Jensen’s stern voice interrupts his settling in. He’s over by a record player, starts a disc of some generic classical music. “Begin with the basics,” he says, coming to stand closer to Jared. “First position, demi plie, demi plie, grand plie, tendu second. Repeat through fifth.” He snaps his fingers once and Jared falls into the movements immediately, naturally. His arms flow through their positions as his knees bend, his feet slide into their correct places. He slips easily into the steady place in his mind where he goes at the barre, following the growl of Jensen’s instructions—grand plies, releve, circular port de bras, to tendu degegge, close to coupe, sus-sous, soutenu, repeat on the other side. The grand battement is his favorite, all the awkward length of his legs moving up powerfully, gracefully, showing off the flexibility he has worked so hard to hold onto since he hit puberty, the one thing he hasn’t lost since he ran away because stretching can be done anywhere, and it’s free. He loses himself in the familiar movements, things he practiced holding on to the back of a chair in his kitchen when he couldn’t get away for class, the almost blissful ease of doing something the body knows without any need for the mind.

The “Enough!” from Jensen is whipsharp and sudden to his peaceful mind. Jared scrambles, barely remembers to close his final movement correctly. He realizes that his breathing has picked up, that sweat is starting to bead up on his forehead. He’s been able to catch classes here and there since he left his dad’s house, whenever he could manage to scrape together enough money to drop in to one of Rafeo’s sessions or join Clint or any of the other boys he’d met in the city. But he hasn’t had a sustained workout in a while, and on top of the nervousness that’s just been lurking under his temporary calm, he’s already feeling the workout.

“We’ll move to the floor now,” Jensen orders. “Perhaps your center work will impress me more.” He says it doubtfully, almost lazily, and for Jared, it's like being doused in ice water. He reluctantly steps away from the comfort of the barre, turns to face the mirror. The floor is not Jared’s strength. Madame Baillieu had been so kind to him, so understanding of his situation and willing to work with him through the years, but there was only so much Jared could do at home. He lacks the fluidity necessary to be successful here, something he knows he can grow into with training. But if Jensen was disappointed by his work at the barre? Jared has no hope here. He swallows around the lump of defeat in his throat, oatmeal turning unhappily in his stomach, tries to even out the ever-increasing speed of his breathing. He can see the shaky rise and fall of his own shoulders in his reflection, the glisten of sweat on his pale face.

 _Keep it together, Jared_ , he chides himself. _If you were perfect already, you wouldn’t need a teacher, and he wouldn’t want you as a student_.

“Begin with tendu, fifth position,” Jensen commands, and Jared tries to flow into the movements with as much ease as he did at the barre. _Center work is about strength_ , Madame Baillieu’s voice reminds in his head, _but it is as much about arm position and body facing. Posture is key._ The ghost of her little hands on his shoulders is there again, and he tries to rise into the memory of the touch.

He goes through a basic series of tendu exercises, forward, to the side, backward, and then all over again facing away from the mirror this time. It’s almost better when he can’t see the deer-wide eyes in his own face, but Jensen has him turning back to his reflection again quickly.

At Jensen’s order, Jared moves into a series of adagio movements—arabesques, held for so long he feels his quadriceps start to shake, develeppes, and finally a series of ronde-de-jambs. He starts to settle into the movements. He can do this, he can impress Jensen, convince the teacher to take him on. Jared is _good_ , knows how much potential he has, how much of himself he is willing to dedicate to this art. He only needs to make Jensen see it.

Jensen moves back to the stereo, switches the music to something faster, violin-heavy. “Pirouettes,” he says, coming back to stand close to Jared, “beginning right,” and Jared complies, sets himself in fourth position, demi plies and presses onto releve, turns, turns, turns. He makes it to five turns the first time, manages to land smoothly, and Jensen keeps staring expectantly so Jared keeps going, pirouettes again, again, again. He wishes, for the umpteenth time, that he had not had to eat so much oatmeal.

Before he’d stopped training, Jared could do eight turns. He tries to push himself to seven now, and falls off his foot. A warm flush of humiliation touches his cheeks. Jensen must think he’s exactly the child Jensen accused him of being at the kitchen table. He tries again, falls again, but before he can try once more, Jensen is snapping his fingers and ordering Jared to go left.

His left turns are worse, body position more inconsistent. He can feel himself traveling across the floor, keeps having to return to the center close to Jensen, and he’s sweating more now in the warmth of the studio. How had he thought it was cold in here? He wonders if it becomes unbearable when sunlight pours in through the upper windows. He doesn’t try to push himself this time, just focuses on the movements, on the sickening slosh of oatmeal in his stomach as his view spins with the turning of his head. Finally, Jensen calls an end to it all, only to have Jared start a series of turns diagonally across the floor, repeated once, twice, three times.

And then they move onto tours en l’air and Jared opens fifth, jumps, spins, lands, hop, hop, hop, close fifth, or tries to, lands with his feet all out of alignment and stumbles into the hops and catches back up to the beginning. As soon as he lands it correctly, Jensen demands double tours en l’air, and Jared lands the first, lands the second, and then suddenly, unexpectedly, the spinning and the sweating and his grossly overfull stomach rise up to meet him and he’s on the ground, puking up his oatmeal all over the beautiful hardwood floor.

Jared stays there on his knees, shaking, throat burning with acid and stomach sharply unsettled, for as long as it takes him to blink back the tears that keep trying to spring to his eyes. Eventually, he falls back onto his haunches, butt on his own heels and hands curled in his lap and trying not to look at the mess on the floor.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he chokes out, voice rough. His throat feels swollen, but he swallows around the pain as Jensen’s expressionless gaze falls on him.

 _Fuck_.

“Cleaning supplies are in the bathroom,” is all Jensen says, gesturing to a door down a little hallway at one end of the studio. Then he turns and walks away, leaving Jared kneeling next to the puddle of his own puke.

Jared feels the thud of the door shutting all the way down to his marrow.

For a moment, he just sits there, still shivering from the aftershocks of his outburst and maybe from something else, too. The first tear that falls off his chin and onto his forearm surprises him, makes him flinch. Jared doesn’t remember the last time he cried. Maybe not since his mom died. But then, this kind of feels like that.

He ignores the tears slipping down his cheeks as he gets unsteadily to his feet. In the bathroom, he pulls a mop out of the linen closet, fills a bucket in the tub and adds some cleaner from under the sink. He takes it all back onto the floor, along with a dustpan and a roll of paper towels.

The smell is sharp, acidic and vile and it almost makes him get sick all over again. He tries to hold his breath, but the tears are coming faster now, and he finally gasps out a sob as he negotiates most of the solid mass of his sick into the dustpan with a wad of paper towels. He climbs to his feet again with the help of the mop handle, dunks the head into soapy water, wrings it out.

He’s a failure. The only thing Jared’s ever wanted, ever _truly_ wanted, and he couldn’t even keep himself together enough to grasp at it.

Even worse, he’s an embarrassment. To Madame Baillieu, to Jensen, to himself. He can’t believe he ever even thought he was worthy of wasting Jensen’s time. All of Jared’s effort, all of the things he’d done to get here—it’s all meaningless. Meaningless because of Jared, because he can’t do one fucking thing right. And he can’t even deal with it like a man.

Jared is exactly the disgusting, pathetic disappointment his father had always believed he was.

He chokes out another sob as he scrubs at his mess, dips and wrings and scrubs some more, and then he can’t seem to stop himself, ends up on his knees again, crying violently into his hands. Why is he even still here? What’s the point of making it this far if he’s going to just _ruin everything_?

Eventually, he manages to calm himself down, pick himself up off the floor glowing hot with shame and emotion and the fact that Jensen isn’t still here to see what a total fucking mess he is, is maybe the only proof of God’s existence that Jared’s ever seen.

He drags himself and the cleaning supplies back into the bathroom. The contents of the dustpan get emptied into the toilet, the bucket into the tub. He scrubs and squeezes out the mop head as thoroughly as he can, cleans the dustpan and the bucket too, for good measure. He doesn’t want Jensen to have to deal with any reminders of exactly how wretched a human being Jared is once he’s gone.

And then he’s done. No more stalling. He washes the tear tracks off his face with cold water and hand soap. The water at his hairline can pass with the sweat soaked in there.

He pauses, just for a moment, on his way towards the door. He imagines, just for a moment, the studio filled with sunlight, piano music in the air and Jared working on the floor. Jensen stands in the corner and watches him dance. It’s not a special moment, but a _familiar_ one, because Jared belongs here, in this beautiful studio with this quiet and beautiful man, becoming something powerful and beautiful himself.

Jared takes a deep breath, the fantasy fading back into steely gray light and emptiness.

He glances at the door. Jensen’s probably off doing any number of things, having completely forgotten that Jared exists.

He takes a step, drags his back foot tendu to catch it up. Steps again, drags. Releve, quick steps and then a few pique turns, straight into déboulés until he’s across the floor. He turns back to the door. Raises his arms up above his head, takes two quick, preparatory turns and then flings himself, still rotating, into the air, back straight, legs wide and strong, toes pointed. For a moment, it’s like he’s hovering there, like he’s the one still and the world is moving around him, and then the rotation completes. He lands on his starting leg, lets the momentum carry him smoothly down to one knee, arms up like second position but one hand held out and empty to the world.

He could have been happy here.

With a sigh, Jared lets his arms fall. He strips off his shoes, gets on his feet, and closes the door on the studio behind him.

***

Jensen is nowhere to be seen on the first floor, and Jared reminds himself that the man is probably completely done with him at this point. It’s best now that he just get his things and see himself out. He goes back into the kitchen, grabs his coat off the chair, and makes his way back out into the foyer. The door to the bathroom under the stairs is open, but when Jared looks inside, his duffel bag is nowhere to be seen.

He stands there, part confusion and part panic for a long moment, because that bag has everything he’s got left to his name in it.

“Jared!” Jensen’s voice comes sharply from somewhere above him.

“Yes?” Jared calls back, coming around to look up the staircase in confusion.

“Upstairs,” Jensen orders, and Jared squeezes his shoes in his fists as he climbs. The floor fans out at the top, two doors to his right and a hallway that extends both ahead of and behind him, but before he needs to wander, Jensen’s voice calls out again, “In here.” It comes from the open doorway behind him, on the front side of the house. Jared follows it.

Jensen’s waiting for him in a small bedroom, white walls and a twin-sized bed with dark blue linens. Jared’s duffel sits on the floor, and its contents are dumped out onto the mattress. Jensen is turning away from the dresser when he comes in.

“Is that my stuff?” Jared asks, stupidly because it’s obviously his, but he’s not sure what else to say when Jensen is going through it so proprietarily.

“Is that your only pair of shoes?” Jensen asks, rather than answering his question.

“Y-yes?” Jared stammers out, stepping closer to the bed. His belongings look sort of sad here, tossed out of the bag so carelessly. He feels an inexplicable desire to shove them all back where they belong. What gives Jensen the right—?

“I’ll have to put in an order for more then. What size are you?” He looks up at Jared with that same flat expression, but Jared thinks just maybe there’s a spark of something amused there, like a game he’s inviting Jared to play.

“Wait,” Jared says unevenly. “Does this mean I’m staying?”

“Your nutrition program will have to be remedial for a while,” Jensen continues as though Jared hadn’t spoken. “Your ankles are weak, and your calves are—”

“Jensen!” Jared’s taken three steps forward without noticing it, puts one hand out to grasp the wrist of Jensen’s hand that’s currently holding a ratty pair of leg warmers.

“I can stay?” Jared asks again, hopeful, looking right into Jensen’s eyes and not daring to breathe until he answers.

“Yes,” Jensen says, tone heavy with impatience. “That should be apparent.” He delicately shakes Jared’s hand off.

“Thank you!” Jared breathes. They’re still staring at each other, and Jared’s heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest. The stretch of his smile over his face feels huge. “Thank you, Jensen. I won’t—you won’t regret this.”

Jensen’s eyes take on a curious glint from the cold gray light, and the corner of his mouth lifts, another expression that jumps out at Jared in comparison to how flat Jensen looks generally.

“I know I won’t,” Jensen says firmly. He finally breaks their eye contact, dropping Jared’s things back on the bed. “Finish putting this stuff away. Lunch is in an hour.” He moves past Jared on his way out the door.

“Thank you,” Jared calls faintly after him, turning to watch Jensen go. He hears Jensen moving down the hallway, a door opening and closing somewhere else in the house.

Jared’s chest is light, nothing but glass and air and the beat of joy. He turns back to the room, and his eyes catch on the window. Outside, it’s still cold, dreary rain as winter firms up its grip on the world. Outside is still a world that has given up on Jared, a world that thinks he’s useless, unimportant, that doesn’t even know he exists at all.

But inside, Jared is smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! A note of future caution about this series: This series of stories will focus on Jensen's rigorous and ethically dubious program to train Jared to be the world's greatest ballet dancer (think the movie Whiplash, if you've seen it. If you haven't, why not??). Jensen will be a very not nice guy, and also there will be non-sexual BDSM-type elements (bondage, spanking, etc.). Each part that I post will be tagged appropriately for its content. I enjoy holding a lot of plot elements close to the chest, but I want people to be aware of what they're getting into, so consider yourself warned. Will this series be dark? Yes. Will it end happily? I'm not telling. If you want to talk about this story (or anything else), come visit me [on Tumblr](http://sammyatstanford.tumblr.com/) (I'm sammyatstanford there, too). Thanks for being here!


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